


Love Story

by dashesofsuga



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Amnesia, Attempted Kidnapping, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Possessive Behavior, Protective Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29849232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashesofsuga/pseuds/dashesofsuga
Summary: "Lie to you?" The man with a mask sputters out, like the possibility is absurd. George feels his heartbeat quicken. "I would never. We're friends, George."Bullshit. What kind of friend makes your heart pound against your chest like it wants to escape its imprisonment?-(Or, George has amnesia, and the stranger claiming to his friend is suspicious.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 127





	Love Story

**Author's Note:**

> \- inspired by love story sung in minor key by sarah cothran, and cigarette duet by princess chelsea.
> 
> this isn't a representation of anyone mentioned in this fic. if someone states that they don't like being written in this fashion, i'll delete this fic immediately. make sure to read the tags properly!! enjoy :]

Red, red, there's so much red. It dyes the dirty blue of ripped jeans, and dampens the air inside the mushroom house with a sharp, metallic scent.

Well, George thinks, pausing in the middle of fumbling through his chest. He's in quite the situation.

"I've missed you," the man in front of him whispers, his voice sweet, sweet, cotton candy.

The brunet's mind pauses. Cotton candy? His head pounds with the warning of an upcoming headache, the way it always does whenever he tries to remember. 

And he tried. A lot. 

It's difficult, remembering. He wonders if this man who's brought blood into his home is worth remembering.

"Say something," the stranger demands, his voice not so much a yell as it is a whisper. "Anything. Yell at me, George, say _something_." His voice breaks like delicate glass and a wave of unknown feelings overtakes George.

He's important, George's mind whispers. 

Who is he?

Perhaps it will be easier to just ignore him; after all, right now, he's just a stranger.

_Green eyes… loud laughs… bated breaths..._

Curiosity overcomes him. 

"What," He swallows. "What are you doing here?" The twenty-four year old fidgets with the goggles he hooked on the belt over his blue hoodie. It was with him when he first woke up in the forest behind the mushroom house. It didn't seem like it belonged on the floors of the forgotten, mossy forest. 

Perhaps it belonged to him. Perhaps it didn't. 

It doesn't matter either way. George likes the goggles. They're bunky and weirdly shaped, white and grey, and they remind George of himself; strange, outlandish, nowhere to go.

The blond man scoffs, and a drip of red falls down from the axe behind him, blending into the puddle of redredred on the floor. George wonders who, or what, the familiar stranger killed. George also wonders why he’s not freaked out by all this. To be fair, his morals aren’t exactly normal; he realized that when he went hunting for the first time since he’s woken up and didn’t blink an eye from the stabs, the blood, the mess.

“What are _you_ doing here?” The question from the man breaks through his thought process.

George blinks. Now that’s something he didn’t expect. The question was said sarcastically, a tone familiar like the static of a radio.

“This is my home?” It's meant to come out as a statement but George pauses before it ends, making it sound like a question. He continues, ignoring the hot flush that runs up his neck from the mistake, “And you’ve just broken into it, so pardon me if I want to know why you’re here." 

The stranger laughs. It’s a strange sound, sounding more like he’s being strangled than a solid laugh. It reminds George of the sound the faulty window of the mushroom house makes when he slides it down during rainstorms.

“You’re right.” The stranger sounds fond. It’s an odd tone, something that doesn’t suit the bloodstained man. But somehow it still manages to sound familiar. Everything about this man is. Then his voice turns sharp, “And I’m right, too. You were supposed to stay.” 

George’s heart starts to race and his breath runs shallow.

“Did Sapnap influence you to run away?” George was wrong. The stranger’s voice is not at all like delicate glass. It’s hard, blast-proof pieces that manage to stick all the right ways into his words. “Or did Tommy tell you what I did?” A new laugh. It’s dark, nothing like the wheeze from before. George forces a breath between his lips. Uncertainty runs through his veins. 

His mind screams at him to do something, anything, but he stays rooted to the ground. He can’t run. 

He doesn’t even know why he wants to. 

The stranger notices his stance. “So now you’re scared to say anything?” He takes a step forward and George is conflicted between moving aside or stepping back, but he takes one glance up and sees cold, greengreenyellowgreen eyes and feels his body freeze. The blond sighs. “You don’t have to say anything. But you’re coming back.” He grabs George’s wrist and the brunet’s mind screams at him to _runrunrun_ — 

_Why is he just letting this man push him around?_

“I’m not going anywhere until you _explain_!” George twists his wrist out of the man’s grip, his words coming out in a hot burst. The stranger looks surprised for a moment, before a hard look overtakes his expression.

“I don’t need to explain anything,” he mutters, moving his hand to grab George’s wrist again.

“Who even are you?” The question didn’t mean to come out as judgemental, but in the heat of the moment, it does, and it surprises both of them enough for the weird atmosphere to shatter completely. 

George can finally breathe again. “Am I supposed to know you? I know you know me. What the hell are you talking about?” 

The familiar stranger stares him over for a moment before he starts laughing again. It lasts a while until the laughter turns into painful looking intakes of air. 

“You— you’re really playing the mind games, huh?” His eyes waters and for a moment they look like the forest behind George’s house. If George tries really hard, he can make out individual leaves like the first thing he saw when he first opened his eyes, laid down on the soft soil of the forest. “Amnesia? This was definitely Sapnap’s idea.”

George takes a step behind him, and decides two things.

One, this stranger is crazy. Two, he really, really hates the stranger’s tone of voice. It feels like hot lava, taking and taking and taking until none of him is left anymore.

His head perks up. "Sapnap?" George mutters out, the name foreign to his mind but familiar on his tongue, like he's spoken it many times before. 

The man studies his unsure expression for a while, something glossing over his eyes that nearly glows from the sunlight gleaming through the window, before it evolves into a hard look. 

"George," he suddenly says, tone nonchalant. "how's Callahan?"

George blinks, the new name not registering in his head.

And the stranger steps back. 

"Holy fuck," he mutters, tone thick with disbelief and a little bit of something else that the brunette cannot tell. "You've forgotten." The wind whistles outside, and he repeats, like the first time wasn’t enough, " _You've forgotten_." 

George doesn't like the second tone the man uses.

The stranger breaks down into a string of incoherent whispering, pacing around the living room of the mushroom house. Well, the all-functional room, with a bedroom in the corner. George clearly wasn't one for interior design back then, or at least here, because the room is as plain as it can be. Dirt blocks are beneath them instead of a proper floor, two torches are in the corners of the rectangular room, and a singular chest lies next to him.

George doesn't mind. However plain this place is, it doesn't stop it from still feeling like home. Nostalgia sticks to the room like sticky sweet ash, a feeling that's both intoxicating and enough to drive him crazy.

"Are you sure you can't remember anything?" This time the stranger speaks directly to him, seemingly done with his outburst. Narrowing his eyes slightly, George wonders if he should tell the truth.

"Barely," he settles on. "A few stray memories here and there." 

He doesn't know what he expected of the green eyed stranger's reaction, but he certainly didn't expect for him to start _laughing_.

"Clearly it's nothing important if you don't remember _me_." The laugh that George doesn't like. George scrunches his nose. Who the hell is this man? Why can't the brunet’s emotions ever act normal around him? 

"Who even are you?" George retorts, arms crossed. "How am I to know you're not just lying to me." His body remembers this guy, whether he likes it or not, but that doesn't mean he can openly trust him. Even with his memories lost, George still understands the pyramid. The weak loses to the strong and by the looks of the bloody axe on the stranger's back, he has a lot to lose. His chicken stock, for one. 

The stranger shifts in his spot, and for the first time, George sees his side profile. He’s been too focused on the literal axe behind the man’s back, too stuck on the blood trailing behind the blond, to realize that there’s something hanging from the stranger’s belt as well. A singular clay, off-white mask that has two black dots stationed on each side and a messy, single line curving upwards. A porcelain smiley face.

It unsettles George, enough to make him take another step back only to realize he’s already almost against the wall. The action is infantilizing and it sends a bitter taste across the roof of his mouth, like he's eaten something bad. 

George must've hated being immobilized in the past.

"Lie to you?" The man with a mask sputters out, like the possibility is absurd. George feels his heartbeat quicken. "I would never. We're friends, George."

Bullshit. What kind of friend makes your heart pound against your chest like it wants to escape its imprisonment? He frowns slightly, shifting his hand out of view from the blond so that he can grab the diamond sword he had put into the chest before the stranger broke into his house. 

"You're suspicious, aren't you?" The sudden sympathetic tone surprises George enough for him to let go. The chest shuts close with a snap.

A smile that resembles the porcelain mask. "I completely get it. I mean, hell, if a stranger claiming to be a friend came up to me when I've just got my memories lost, I'd be suspicious too." 

The blond then proceeds to pull out a piece of paper from seemingly _nowhere_. George stares, dumbfounded, at the air where the paper came from. What the hell? Then he blinks in shock when the stranger shoves paper in his direction. 

He hesitates before taking the paper. It crinkles against his touch like it's been around for a while.

It's a… George squints. A photo?

It's him. He can tell, and it's almost scary how weirdly nostalgic the image is and how unfamiliar it is at the same time. He's wearing a blue hoodie in the photo, a shade lighter than the one he's wearing right now, and paired with a soft-looking red scarf. And he looks younger, happier, with a peace sign thrown out to the camera. The stranger is beside him, also looking younger, with his arms thrown around George and giving a peace sign as well. 

The entire photo is kind of blurry, like someone was having trouble holding up the camera. Laughing, the answer comes. George inhales. The cameraman was having trouble because he was too busy laughing. He can almost hear the hard laughter, the smell of snow, Sa—

His head pounds. 

Sa… Sap… 

"That's you and me!" The stranger—George's apparent friend—grins. "It was winter and you practically begged us to bring you to the mountains to find treasure. It was terrible, we came back empty handed." The regretful words contrast against his bright tone. 

"Us?" George mumbles. 

"Oh," the man pauses. "Did I say us? I meant you, me, and Bad. He's a good friend of ours. He's out of town right now though." He sends George an apologetic look. "He's good with potions. He might've been able to help your situation."

Speaking of his situation. George shoves the photo into the pockets of his hoodie. 

"But…" Forest. Flowers. Bruises. "Why did you say you missed me? How did I even get this way? Why— wh— what," he fumbles with his words. Everything is confusing. This guy—the man with the mask—he's his friend but why does George still want to run whenever he's around him? If they're friends, why did the blond take so long to come here? It's been nearly a week since he woke up. 

From what?

His world spins in shades of blue and grey. 

"George?"

He can't feel his breath anymore.

"George!"

He doesn't want this. He wants to go back to how he was before. He looked so happy. Why isn't he happy now? What happened? How did he end up in the forest?

"SNAP OUT OF IT!" 

Hands take a hold of his shoulders and George gasps, taking in a gulp of air. His hands are wet and so are the strings of his hoodie. It takes a while for him to realize the source is his face.

"Breathe." The breath from the word is warm against his neck. His cheek is pressed against the chest of the man. "You're having a panic attack. I'm with you. Concentrate on your breathing." 

George sucks in another breath.

It's difficult, but it works after a few more tries, until his breathing eventually becomes normal again.

"Do you need anything?" The genuinely worried tone of the man calms George down, like a warm wave of water washing over him. "I thought I was going to lose you again." The last part is a murmur, faint enough that George can't hear through the roar of his own mind.

The brunet leans harder against the wall behind him, hands shaking. 

It feels like a hole was permanently shot through his soul; something that was his for a long time was taken away from him forcibly. It wasn’t theirs to take. He wants to remember. He wants to know why he’s like this, he wants to know how he got this way. 

He wants his memories back. 

His determination trembles when the stranger says, “I can help you, George. I’ve been with you for nearly all of your life.” George glances up to see warmwarmwarm emerald eyes and soft smiles and what seems like the entire sun. 

“What is your name?” He mutters out, his hands finally relaxing. He hadn’t notice that he hasn’t even gotten the blond’s name after all of… whatever that was.

A grin.

“Dream.”


End file.
